


The End of a Possibility

by Satine86



Series: Parallels [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Parallel Universes, Sequel, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/pseuds/Satine86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He knows, even after all he's been through, this is the moment his life truly changes.</i><br/><br/>Sequel to "Possibilities," following the story of the one they called "Tethras."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of a Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> After I finished the fic Possibilities, I really wanted to write Alt!Varric's story. So here we are! This is directly connected to the other story, draws on certain scenes found there. I don't think it's necessary to read Possibilities, but it is recommended.

He has to flee his home.

It's only pure shit luck that keeps him alive, racing through the wrecked streets of Kirkwall. Dodging around rubble and flames and bodies on his way to the harbor. 

When he boards a boat heading toward Ferelden, he doesn't know where the others are. Doesn't know if any of them made it out alive. The last he saw in the Viscount's keep was Merrill cradling Hawke's lifeless body, and Aveline standing over them both, ready to fend off those who would come near. Then he was being shoved into a side passage. He thought the others were with him, but there was a clang and a cry. A fight. Another wail drowned out by the Arishok's rumbling orders. The people clamoring to get away had shoved him along, and he lost track of it all. 

There was no time to gather his things, no time to do anything but run. Again, it's only luck that gets him a place aboard the ship. As the captain maneuvers their way out of the harbor, the refugees packed in so tightly he can scarcely move. Varric twists his head to look at his home one last time. He bids it a silent farewell as he watches it burn to the ground. 

~~~

When he finally sets foot on Ferelden land, he is horrendously sick. Between the lurching boat and lack of any real food for so long, it is little wonder. Though now he knows exactly how Hawke felt upon arriving in Kirkwall, fleeing the Blight. The thought twists his stomach into even more knots, and he can effortlessly recall Hawke's empty eyes staring at him while Merrill's anguished wails filled his ears. 

Pushing it all aside, Varric leaves the docks in search of shelter and food. With little coin in his pocket it is, unsurprisingly, rather difficult. With so many refugees fleeing Kirkwall, those with the means are reluctant to share too much. Not that he can blame them, he supposes. So he name drops, and tells stories he hasn't repeated in years. It's enough to get a hot meal and a bed for the night. 

The fever that sets in isn't a surprise, nor is being turned out into the street despite it. The healer in town is barely qualified as such, and suddenly he misses Anders. Still he gets a tonic, and it helps some, before ambling on his way. He can't stay near the water, the cold, wet air sinking into his bones. So he moves on, further inland. 

As he travels, he catches bits of news in taverns and along the road. Kirkwall is gone. He often wonders what happened to the others, if they're safe or if they're dead. Those thoughts haunt him at night, just like the memory of Hawke's eyes and Merrill's wails. 

~~~

It doesn't take long for those in charge to declare war. Tevinter is there to face the Qunari threat, along with Orlais and Ferelden. Nevarra falls in line soon enough, once Antiva crumbles to the threat. Just like the Free Marches have. 

There's been no word from home, no word from the others. Even his contacts have dried up. And when they start enlisting soldiers, he is one of the first in line. 

The camps are as he expected, tents and people crowded together. But they are given hot meals, and a relatively dry place to sleep. It's as good as he's seen since he left Kirkwall. The training isn't so bad either, everyone falling inline, learning how to take orders. 

That is when he meets _her_. 

Her reputation proceeds her, of course it does: Nevarran Princess, Seeker of Truth, Right Hand of the Divine, Hero of Orlais. She is also notoriously hard on the recruits, pushing them to exhaustion. 

He's heard the whispers about her since he arrived, though he is hardly prepared seeing her in person.  
She is standing with another Seeker, he is tall and dark-haired like she is. He says something, and she laughs. Her face lighting up as she shoves her companion's arm, sunlight glinting off her braided crown. 

She is beautiful and he is breathless. And he knows, even after all he's been through, this is the moment his life truly changes. 

~~~ 

“I know who you are.” The words are colored with a thick Nevarran accent, the voice holding a rich timbre. Varric looks up to find Seeker Pentaghast taking a seat across the camp fire.

“That so?” he asks, arching a brow. 

She smiles at him, the firelight making her skin glow bronze. “Yes, you are Varric Tethras. I have read your books. I am a fan.” 

“Well, that's flattering. I think?”

Her laugh is surprisingly light for one bedecked in so much armor, for one with such a long list of accomplishments on the battlefield. Then she grows more somber, leaning forward slightly. 

“I am sorry about Kirkwall. They say you were there the day it fell?” 

“Yeah. Barely made it out.” He hangs his head, the loss welling up again and threatening to choke him. 

She gets up, moves closer to him and places a warm hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry. It must be difficult.” 

“Not the city so much as friends, you know?” He lifts his gaze to meet hers, and is surprised by the openness he sees in her eyes. 

“It is never easy to lose the ones we care about. Might some have survived as well? There were many who fled the city.” 

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, throat tight. “There's one I know for certain who didn't make it out. Hawke, you were so stupid,” he mumbles to himself. 

“Hawke,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I have heard that name. There were stories about a challenger, though that is all I took them for: stories.” 

He shakes his head. “No. That was true. Hawke is–was–my best friend. Reckless, strong… but not strong enough.”

“Tell me about Hawke. Sometimes it is good to remember those we have lost, to honor them and their memory.” 

“Are you sure you want to hear my rambling stories, Seeker? You probably have a hundred more important things to do.” 

“Start talking, dwarf.” She nudges his boot gently, a teasing smile curving her lips. “They tell me you are good at it.” 

He chuckles, a little weak but no less sincere. “You can call me Varric, you know?” 

Her smile widens, eyes glittering in the firelight. “You may call me Cassandra.” 

~~~

Cassandra is nothing like he had imagined, and unlike anyone he has met before. Even with their responsibilities and the grim threat of war, they fall into an easy friendship. Her brother and fellow Seeker, Anthony, rounding out their trio. 

They laugh and joke and it almost feels like old times, back in Kirkwall when he was a different person. Varric enjoys spending time with them both. Though Cassandra is far easier on the eyes, he confesses one night while they drink Nevarran wine. Anthony grumbles while Cassandra – no, he amends, Cassie now – giggles in turn. When Anthony leaves to fetch them all more wine – “Always more wine when in the company of good friends!” – Cassie leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

He's surprised, turns to look at her with questioning eyes. Her own gaze is light, a fond smile tipping her lips upward. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and up close she is breathtaking. She reaches out, lays a cool hand against his cheek. 

The air is charged, the moment full of promise and… doubt. If she kisses him things will change, and he's not certain he's ready for that. She shifts a little closer and he breaths in her scent – leather and spice undercut with vanilla – and he knows it's already too late. There is a silent agreement as they both lean into each other. Her lips are warm and soft and the kiss goes to his head quicker than the wine. 

They break apart when Anthony returns, but he's laughing. “About time you kissed, I wasn't sure I could handle another moment of the pining.” He's still laughing as he takes his leave for the evening, wine clutched in his hand as he finds a group of soldiers he knows. 

She's laughing too when she kisses him again. 

~~~

The war is difficult, ugly, and he sees horrors he hopes to never think of again. Anthony's friendship lessens things. Cassie is the bright spot though, a warm presence he would not give up for anything. 

When the Divine falls there is a call for one unified front. The Chantry is in despair, the Circles falling into ruins. Thedas needs a stronghold to stem the rising tide. The Inquisition rises again, Cassie at the forefront of it all, guiding it with the Left Hand of the Divine. 

There is an endless stream of people flocking to the cause, everyone coming together. Only there is strife among the ranks, templars against mages, Orlesians against Fereldans, and no one to hold the order. Not until Anthony assumes the role of Inquisitor. He is a level-head, patient and firm. It flourishes. 

Until Haven falls. Then there is a new threat, a new horror spreading across the land. Corypheus with the Qunari and red Templars is not something they had prepared for. It is something out of their worst nightmares. 

Varric barely manages to escape, barely manages to drag Anthony and Cassandra from the fighting, stubborn fools that they are. He is fleeing again, but it is the right thing to do. They have to live to fight another day. 

~~~

Life continues on, and so does the war. The Inquisition finds a new stronghold, reaches out to those in power. Thedas cannot fall. It will not fall. 

Even amid the chaos and death, things are not always so bleak. Hope is a fragile thing, but when one finds a sliver of it they grab hold and do not let go. 

It is in the spring when they marry. There are flowers in bloom, and Cassie holds a small clutch of wildflowers as Anthony walks her down the aisle of the makeshift Chantry. Her dress is plain, but pretty. Though everything pales in comparison to her smile, wide and glowing and happy. Varric thinks he has never been so lucky, and his heart swells. 

Those they have come to call friends, advisors and leaders in their own right, are witness to this small moment of joy. The celebration afterward lasts well into the night, everyone joining in right down to the lowest serf. 

He does not stay though, instead whisking his wife away from the raucous, wanting to steal away a few hours together. The closest they will have to a Honeymoon. 

In the morning, they will return to their duties. In the morning things will still be the same, the world in a state of flux. But in the morning, he thinks as he lies with Casandra pressed against his side – sure and warm and familiar – she will still be his wife. 

~~~

Their first anniversary is spent alone, locked in their room. It is the most time they have had together in nearly two months. It is utter bliss. 

For a short time he can forget the war, forget the exhaustion and blood shed and death. There is only them. Together and happy. 

They lie together in bed, huddled under blankets and furs to stave off the chill that forever seems to permeate the mountain air. Cassandra is curled around him, face nestled in the crook of his neck. Her breath tickles, but it would not change anything about the moment. She nuzzles against him, lifts her head slightly and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

He smiles at the contact, opens his eyes and watches as she shifts the blankets, flings one long, tanned leg over his hips and straddles him. 

Her smile is wide and happy, eyes glowing and cheeks flush. She is magnificent. 

“I love you wife,” he says, voice low as his hands trail up her thighs. 

Cassandra bites her lip, shifts herself just so. “And I love you, husband of mine.” 

He thinks he will never tire of hearing those words, the way her accent colors them, how her mouth twists. In the early morning light they make love, slow and soft because right now they have all the time in the world.

~~~

He leaves himself wide open, which is a stupid, clumsy mistake. The Red Templar Shadow is poised to run him through, its red lyrium blades raised. 

Except the blow never comes. 

Instead Cassandra stands in the way, her blood mingling with the eerie glow of the lyrium. When the Shadow pulls back, she crumples to the ground and he rushes to her side. Anthony bellows a cry, sounding like an angry dragon rather than a man. He faces off against the Shadow while Varric tries to stem the blood. 

“Why did you do that? You foolish woman.” 

She laughs weakly, ends up coughing up blood instead. “I would not see you hurt, dear husband.” 

“And this is better?” He presses down on the wound, hands fumbling at his belt. “We just need a poultice or a potion… shit, where's the healer?” Back at camp, he thinks. No where near. 

“It does not hurt as much as I thought it would,” she mumbles, voice weak. 

“Shock,” he says. “You're going into shock.” 

The world seems to dim around him, the sounds of Anthony fighting are dulled compared to the sound of his heart thrumming in his ears. The colors all seem to fade, leaving only the angry red seeping from the wound, and the beautiful warm brown of her eyes. 

“Just hold on, we'll get you to the healer. Cassie, it's going to be all right.” 

She smiles at him, lifts a hand to cup his cheek. She loves him, he knows she does, she doesn't need to say it. And she can't say it, as she struggles to breath. His hand covers hers. Then her eyes drift shut, and he is certain his entire world turns grey. 

Eventually Anthony bests his opponent, and Varric is dimly aware when he stumbles toward them, sinking next to his sister's lifeless body. Anthony cradles her, rocking her like one might a child, and he wails. The cries like that of a wounded beast. 

A wounded dragon. 

The Pentaghasts have suffered a great loss. 

Varric suffers the most. 

He changes that day. He knows he does, closing himself off and giving up on hope. Because hope was not for him. Not in this world. 

Not without Cassandra. 

~~~

When the sky rents open, a blast knocking him senseless, he finds himself in a strange place. Yet so familiar. The templar next to him seems just as rattled, just as confused. It's even more confusing when they're thrown in cells and asked questions.

So many questions. He knows they are important, that they give away clues… if only he could follow the link. The woman, surrounded with guards bearing a familiar crest, is not at all familiar. She is addressed as 'Inquisitor', and he can't understand why. 

Things are only more confusing when they are brought into the main hall, curious eyes boring into them. The first shock is seeing the templars face – his perfect double – standing near the throne of this Inquisitor. Then he sees his own twin.

“Andraste's tits,” Varric murmurs. 

“My thoughts exactly,” his twin replies. 

There is confusion, no one has an answer. There is talk of blood magic and lyrium, and he can see the templar and his twin are already at odds. A dwarf, of all people, seems to have the answer. Or at least something that sounds like an answer. Which is good enough for him. 

Then there is a stir among the people, someone shoving their way through the crowd. 

“Ugh, the rumors are true, there ARE two of them,” a voice says. A voice he had never dreamt of hearing again. 

When she finally emerges from the crowd, when he finally sees her, it is like his world is full of color again. He can scarcely breathe for seeing Cassandra again, can scarcely think. 

“Casandra,” he breathes. All he wants is to rush forward and hold her, but the chains rattle and he remembers. This is not his world. She is not his Cassie. She settles next to his double and the envy he feels is all consuming. 

But she is just as beautiful as he remembers, and there is some solace in that. 

~~~

He knows what has to be done. In truth, it was probably why he was there in the first place. There was no other option, if only Cassandra would realize that. Stubborn woman. 

At least, he muses, some things never change. 

“Let me try to keep you safe, huh? Give me that much?” 

She is near tears and he can't stand it, feels like a vice is squeezing his heart. He smiles and kisses her, walks out from the barrier. He knows she will be angry, knows that she will blame herself for not doing more. But she has _him_ , his twin, and that is good. They will have each other. They will have what he should have had. 

The whirr of magic nearly knocks him flat once he's free of the mage's barrier. He has to struggle toward the artifact, each step a great effort as he shields his eyes from the wind. It seems an eternity before he makes it to the blighted thing, and it's a bit like the eye of a storm. 

He takes a step and all at once it goes from raging carnage, to peaceful calm. The artifact is glowing serenely, and it is impossible to imagine that it is causing such destruction. Without thinking, without hesitation, he reaches out and lays his hand against it. 

A shock of magic thrums up his entire arm, he has no time to think what is happening, yet somehow he _knows_. There is no pain though, no fear or resignation, just peace. The last thing he sees is Cassandra – his _Cassie_ – smiling at him, welcoming. Then he knows no more.


End file.
